


Tricking

by marlowe78



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Not really asshole-John, dubious parenting, not very nice John, very dubious parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marlowe78/pseuds/marlowe78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lowers his lids, looks dreamily into his glass filled with amber liquid and even all the way through the crowded room it’s visible for everyone who's looking that the flirt’s still on under his long lashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** _Nothing's what it seems to be!_ Language. And... There are certain things that might bother you. I really, really don't want to tell you, but if you need to make sure, look [here for complete Warnings](http://marlowe78.livejournal.com/2881.html) I can say this much without spoiling the read: no gore, no non-con.

**Disclaimer:** I sadly don't own the Winchesters, any rights to them and I'm very disappointed that I don't get paid for writing fiction. This is _fiction_. Nothing's real.

a/n: I wrote this some time ago. It was one of those that grab you and shake you and won't stop bothering you until it's finished. I HAD to write it, after seeing [this](http://loyalfans.net/jaorg-gallery/displayimage.php?pid=915&fullsize=1) and [that](http://loyalfans.net/jaorg-gallery/albums/darkangel/TheBerrisfordAgenda/tba081.jpg) and every image in between.  


******************

A fast smile, a spark in his eyes – a hint of tongue that travels over the lips. The target’s never let out of his view, nearly swallowed by his bedroom eyes. He lowers his lids, looks dreamily into his glass filled with amber liquid and even all the way through the crowded room it’s visible for everyone who's looking that the flirt’s still on under his long lashes. When the object of his endeavour stands, Dean slips from his stool too. With a slight sway of his hips that has the eyes of every female patron in this dirty gin-mill on him and nevertheless doesn’t look in the least feminine, and a very subtle, nearly invisible ‘come with me’ that’s hinted by the incline of his head he leaves the bar. Following the scruffed-up sign to the rest-rooms. To the emergency exit.

 

He sits in a corner, his back to the wall. In front of him his third beer, behind him nothing but the big mirror that someone hung up to make the place look _classy_. If it was clean, it might even have worked. Behind him only said mirror and the big, half-dead potted plant, which in its short, rotten life probably hasn’t seen more than a few hours of daylight. And with which he has more in common than with most people in this joint. Not only the fucking lack of sunshine. This sad rubber tree has probably gotten more liquid tonight than ever before. He hopes it likes beer.

He sees the expectant smile, already filled with lust and anticipation of something new, unknown. Something exciting. He empties his half-full glass with one hearty draught and follows the two, a belch and a fast grip to his crotch showing interested onlookers that his tank is full and needs to be drained for the next round. Not that anyone’s interested. No-one seems to have recognized the silent dialogue at the other end of the bar anyway. Except those that had their eyes on Dean before, undressed his slender, muscular body in their minds already and are now looking disappointedly back into their drinks, saving those images in their head for some private wet dreams and never fulfilled fantasies.

After giving them enough of a headstart, he too takes the narrow corridor to the can, where at the end the door to the back-yard is ajar. He sneaks closer, lithe and silent. He is hunting now, feeling naked without his gun in the back of his jeans, but bullets aren’t necessary tonight. If something’ll go wrong, he has his knife within reach, sharp as a scalpel.

He’s at the door, silent voices drifting in, whispers full of lust. He knows what he’s going to do, what he should do _right now_. But curiosity is a curse, so he stays, hand outstretched, prepared to intervene if something happens. If the plan backfires.

Through the small clearance between door and frame he recognizes Dean against the wall, the target in front of him, _against him!_ A huge, white hand glides down his ribs, one finger after another playfully following the contours of his pectorals through the thin fabric of his plain, grey T, wandering to the well-toned, flat stomach. In the pale shine of the yard-light, he sees the kittenish, mischievous grin on Dean’s face, lips slightly parted and even though he can’t see it in this light he _knows_ about the sparkle in those green eyes. Knows that no-one can resist it.

“God you’re unbelievable. So… so warm. So…” The man has already lost the ability to form an entire sentence, his eyes glued to the sinful lips and it won’t take much, only… there, the tongue is playing again. Paired with the slight lift of one eyebrow and the stranger moans from the depths of his massive body.

“Please, …please…”

He hears the husky plea, and there it is again, that feeling. It had been slumbering the whole evening in his depths, awoken now that he sees Dean like this: able to entice these moans and groans with only one slow gaze.

“Shhhhh” Dean shushes the man, moves slowly along the wall. It’s just a hint of movement but enough to lift the shirt a little, show a little naked skin. He sees the white hand land on the tight stomach muscles, a light golden-brown taint because of the long summer spent outside. The pale appendage is like a beacon in this light. He sees the muscles tighten, goose-bumps rising along the forearm raising the fine, reddish-gold hairs. The stranger doesn’t notice. That feeling in his chest squeezes his heart so tight, he fears it’ll burst and give him away.

“Hold it, not so fast” Dean’s voice is smoky, enticing. Not a hint of insecurity, of unease. His hand rests on the man’s chest, holding him away. Not far away, though. Skilfully playful he lets it glide lower.

“Please, I… I… Oh God” The white fingers wander over the belt buckle, lower. Not quite tenderly they caress the jeans in front, carefully gliding between Dean’s thighs. The second hand grips the right wrist, pressing it against the bricks. Not hard, not brutal but full of intent. An involuntary sound of discomfort from Dean when the knuckles scratch along the rough brick-wall, fast twisted into a satisfied rumble. Not recognizable for strangers, for people not able to speak _Dean_. If there is anyone who does. Sometimes, he isn’t sure _he_ understands him.

He should act now. That was the plan. He… fascinated he watches the face he knows so well, better than his own. Searches for unease and…fear. Some hint that this is not what the stranger bargained for. He feels the aching burn deep in his stomach.

He _knows_ where that hand is, _knows_ what it does. And now that he looks closely he can see it in Dean’s features. The stranger is gone, in his own, private heaven. Wouldn’t even notice if the object of his desires suddenly sprouts wings. But _he_ sees it, recognizes the fine tick in the corners of the eyes, the teeth on – already in? – the lower lip. The target rubs his pelvis against Dean’s thigh, his dick against Dean’s crotch. The flabby lips are on Dean’s neck and he hears whispered words, nothingness, nonsensical phrases. A grip of the head, lips meeting Dean’s. Adams-apple jumps in desire and now this white sausage-fingers grip the belt and…

**“What the fuck is going on here?”**

 


	2. Chapter 2

So close, so close… the warmth that has spread in his abdomen ever since his gaze fell on that young guy at the bar is pure, sweet torture, painful nearly. He is so hot, so hard and solid and so inaffably exciting. Sexy. He wants him, like he never wanted anything ever before, not like that. With so much lust, so much desire for mindless, uninhibited sex. No ‘relationship’, not even a one-night-stand. This will be a fuck. Hot, hard and dirty. He wants to feel him, own him, if only for a night, for a few precious minutes. Wants to bring these amazing eyes to ecstasy, wants to bruise those lips, push his dick into his sinful mouth and fuck him. Bite him, lick him, scratch, kiss and destroy him, put him back together. Take him, here, now; press him against this dirty wall and lose himself in him, fuse his heat to his own, fuse and part, fuse, part… He never felt anything like this, never!

This guy makes him crazy, his smile is hot and knowingly cheeky. He wants to cast it out of him, even though it was that smile that made him aware of him in the first place. He wants to have him, take him, fall to the illusion to at least once in his life get what he wants, not what others grant him. Therefore, this grin has to go, but it’s so pretty, so …

This guy is pure sex, and he knows it. Knows about his impact, coquettes with it and he will be damned if the guy doesn’t know what’s in his head. That this is nothing but a game for him. But he doesn’t care.

The pressure in his pants is getting bigger, aches. He whispers into the neck, licks the skin behind the ears and his hand… his hand is nearly where it wants to be, where it belongs; his fingers shove into the seams, feel the heat that emanates from him. The sensors of his un-calloused office-fingers nearly explode when they meet the soft skin inside the jeans. Swiftly, they are out again, grip the belt. He will …

The noise of a buckle being opened, leather moving through metal has always been an acoustic stimulus to him. Makes him harder than anything. He will open those pants, first the button, then the zipper. He’ll touch him, make him hot. Open his own pants, press him down – no doubt he’ll sink to his knees on his own volition. He’ll touch his hair, the back of his head. Grip him tight and hard, not letting go. Move. Feel his breath on him, around him; his tongue, his hands, his…

 

“What the fuck is going on here?”

He hears the words, can’t grasp their meaning. He’s too far gone, wants only one thing, wants what’s his. Wants…

A hard hand grabs his shoulder and he growls “Fuck off, none of your business!” into the pretty’s neck. But that hand doesn’t ease up, pulls him away and he’s prepared to fight for the first time in his life when he notices his prey change. Nothing nimble on him anymore. Not sexy – horror-struck.

“D…Dad?”

A bucket of ice-water couldn’t have gotten him back down faster.

The hand on his shoulder belongs to a hairy arm with a military tattoo. The arm belongs to a broad chest, a hard, trained stomach, a stubbled neck and a dark head which at this very moment pulses literally in undisguised contempt, fury and disgust. The eyes are greenish brown, darker as the son’s and there is so much fire and wrath in them that he’d actually like that cold shower now.

“Dad?” He turns to the man from the bar, wants him to say that he misheard, that it’s not true – that he didn’t just say ‘Dad’. But he did. The guy from the bar is gone and in front of him, still with his pale paw on his wrist, stands a boy. A child with stricken eyes and panic in his face. Gone are the kittenishness, any hint of sex, of knowledge and he can’t help ask himself if it was ever there in the first place, if it was reality. If he’s losing his mind.

Did he only dream the gazes? Did the boy ever really come voluntarily? Did he… oh my God…

“Oh my God…” The dark stranger - the Dad - stares at him with so much disdain and anger and like a hot potato he finally lets go of the wrist in his hand, jumps a step away.

“What are you doing with my son?”

“Sir, I… I… this is not like…”

“Not like it looks?” The voice is a growl, a rumble not unlike his son’s, but deeper. Like thunder slowly crawling over the mountain-tops, announcing a storm. Dark clouds in his eyes.

“Not like it looks? I sure hope so. Because right now, from where I’m standing, it looks like you just molested my sixteen-year-old son.”

“Six..sixteen?” His voice is unrecognizable, an unmanly squeak, a croak.

“Dad…”

“You shut up! You have no business in a bar, and I’m not even mentioning the part you played here.” The man grabs his son, grabs his arm and as hard as this grip is he can’t help imagining what’ll happen if those hands wrap around his own throat. Probably not much anymore.

“Come on. And you…you…freak…” the father has difficulties finding words fitting him. He can’t resent him for it. Sixteen!

Pedophile, he hears in his head. Pervert. Child-abuser.

“Dad, where are we…”

“Phone. I’m calling the police.”

No!

“Sir…” every instinct, numbed from the shock to realize his own depravity, springs back to life. “Sir, please, … I…”

“What?” The man’s fury turns on him again and he flinches “First, you molest my boy and then you have the guts to try and weasel your way out? Man, you are so lucky – I should cut off your balls! Come on, move it, you piece of shit!”

“No, Sir please!” He’s begging now, not too proud to fall on his knees. He can’t, the grip on his arm too tight, but he would. “Please, sir. My…my wife…” Tears well up in his ease. “I didn’t know he is so young, I swear!” God. Sixteen. A kid. A boy who should play baseball, ride a bike, mope about homework. A kid who should meet his first girlfriend, fall in love, get his first kiss. Someone who slowly grows up, turns into a man. No-one should take that from him. No-one should destroy that innocence before it’s time, before a teen can decide himself which path he’ll tread.

His mind mercilessly shows him his future.

Police. Rape, statutory at the least. Probably more. He never checked but he remembers distantly that the age of consent is eighteen in this state. And didn’t he read something about different rules if it was between two men… It’s not a man, though.

It's a child. He’d protested for the death-penalty when that rapist was on trial, two years ago. It never came to it. Luckily, he thinks now. Prison. He’ll lose his job, unemployment. Lose his house, his friends, his wife. His family – he’ll never be allowed to see his nieces again. Socially outcast and everlasting shame. He couldn’t survive it. Wouldn’t be able to.

“Sir…what…what can I do? Please, I’ll do everything. Just…just no cops, please… Please.”

The father is thinking. His eyes are still filled with hate, but at least he’s thinking.

“I don’t think…” his voice is cold.

“Two hundred dollars!” A flash of insight. The boy showed him a way out. When the kid looked down, worrying the threadbare seams of his t-shirt… the father's old leather-jacket, the worn-out jeans and shoes, it had come to him. Money.

“What?” The man doesn’t bellow or shout. He whispers. It doesn’t make him less scary, less lethal. His voice is bitter cold and sharp as steel. “You want to buy my son?”

“Nononononono!” he hastens to say. “Not…I didn’t, for… for any harm done. Psychological. You know…” his voice drifts away. He is so dead…

He never sees the twinkle and tiny hint of a smile in the eyes of the boy.

“For two-hundred dollars no shrink’s gonna open the door for me!” From here on, it’ll be easy. This he knows. Negotiations, that’s his métier, his job. He calculates hastily what he has in his wallet, how much his credit-card will spit out.

“Eight hundred?”

The father isn’t happy, looks at his son, his hard gaze softening. He sees a lot in this gaze – or better, not a lot. Eight hundred dollars isn’t much for him, but for those two? With eight hundred you can survive quite a while.

“Thousand.” No-one should say he doesn’t value his life. The stranger looks from him to his son and back. He can see the disgust, the self-hate. And he knows he’s won.

“All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with me. Though I don't really understand John, I never believe him to have been abusive in ANY way to his kids. Not intentionally, at least. So no, he is NOT a complete bastard, and I didn't write him as one.


	3. Chapter 3

He’s sitting next to him and he looks so young on the passenger-seat. In front of him in the silver Lexus is this…this guy. Hopefully still so shocked that he won’t realize he’d been played, driving to the next bank and when they get there, he’ll withdraw thousand dollars and he’ll hand it over and he’ll never hear from them again. He’ll live his life, at least if he doesn’t step in front of a bus. Or, say, a black Chevy. He looks over at the boy next to him, silent, thoughtful and that feeling is back and this time, he recognizes it, understands it and names it.

Shame

Mary…. Oh Mary. What have I done?”

It’d started so harmless.

At a gas-station, somewhere in Iowa, or Colorado, or Wherthefuckever. Dean was to pay and once again he hadn’t been able to keep his fingers to himself. Sometimes he’d had the feeling he raised a magpie – that boy stole everything that wasn’t nailed down. But they did have low funds and gas was expensive, not to mention motel-rooms. Chocolate was a rare treat and wherever possible, his eldest helped himself. To make his little brother happy.

And because Sammy was a sweet little boy, he always shared, so both had sweets. But he’d have to talk with the kid, stealing was a sure-fire way to be on CPS’ radar and they couldn’t afford any attention. He’d stepped into the little shop when he saw through the window that his little magpie had been busted. That hadn’t happened too often, lately, but Dean had had to fight off his nasty cold and wasn’t on top of his game. Entering, he noticed at once that his son had tried to talk himself out of the situation. The lie was clear to see on his face.

After he’d paid for the chocolate-bar, apologized and given his son a thorough dressing down, he shoved him into the car and didn’t say a word. Didn’t know what.

After ten miles, the devastation in his kid’s face hadn’t eased, not even a little, and he remembered that this wasn’t Sammy. That his eldest didn’t shake off harsh words like his youngest did but buried them deep. Ever since Fort Douglas, his son had lost a carelessness that on the one hand was dangerous for him, his brother and therefore this whole family, but was the sign of youth, of childhood and carefree happiness on the other hand.

He sighed.

“Dean, you’ll have to watch that.” He'd looked in the mirror to judge his kid’s reaction. As anticipated, Dean drank in his words and the gentle tone like water, eyes lighting up just because his father spoke to him kindly. It had ached in his chest.

“You should practice. Never steal when you’re not on top of your game. Be more careful. Don’t get caught. And if you tell a lie, no-one can know you do so. Most important rule –“ he twisted in the seat and smiled mildly “K.I.S.S. Keep it simple, stupid. Or: Keep it simple, short. No elaborate stories – short facts, short sentences. Simple, easy to remember, for you and the guy you're lying to. And watch the body-language. You remember how to spot a liar?”

“Eyes go… left? They go left. The eyes go to the right when you try to remember something”, Dean beamed.

“Very good. And other stuff too, but that’ll go too far now. But what’s important – it happens unconsciously. Everyone does it. You do it too. If you lie, people see it. At least those that know where to look. But you can train those body-reaction. To begin with, for simple lies in front of ordinary people, you have to watch the words. Listen…”

The rest of the drive he’d spent schooling his sons. It had been a game. John would say something and Dean would try to spot the lie, Sammy happily giving his opinion too. To prevent guessing, his boy had to explain why he’d thought the sentence true or false. Later, when Dean got good enough, they switched, Dean trying to trick his dad.

The eleven-year-old had smiled brightly and the shine in his eyes, the pride that shimmered when he’d been able to lie without being noticed… John had felt like dog-shit. Like a proud, but stinking pile of dog-shit.

But… It had been necessary. The kid had been unbelievably quick to get what's important and when he’d turned twelve he’d sometimes even been a quicker, smarter and better liar than his old man. Together with Sammy, who, prepared thoroughly, covered the untruths like a pro, spun ‘em further and distracted the victims with his puppy-eyes and the deep-seated earnestness in his face, the young Winchesters had been masters of deceit. Only a professional would have been able to nail him.

Police, CPS. Some teachers. Those got fewer the older Dean got.

And ordinary people? Had been helpless against the Winchester-charm.

Flirting, Dean had picked up on his own. No problem, ever since he’d grown out of his soft-featured baby-face and nearly seamlessly turned into a young adult whom girls followed like rats the pied piper. Teenage-hormones and a healthy dose of confidence in his optic allure sealed the deal. What his father taught him – and for what he’ll burn in Hell, kicked in by Mary if he didn’t end there on his own – was to use the natural attraction he triggered in people for his own goals.

For the family and the family-business. Little hints from John had completed this ability, his boy’s charming magic.

 

While he is watching the teen next to him, John remembers those things and he can’t help asking himself if a pimp would train his merchandise like that. Where the difference is supposed to be.

”Use your tongue, only a short lick… now”

“Eyebrow”

“Wink, she’s looking”

“Smile”

He can’t imagine ever feeling as dirty as he does right now.

*

They take the money. It feels slimy, disgusting. The chalky stranger drives away and John shudders when he remembers those fingers on his son, those hands on Dean’s skin. Remembers the open lust which had shone from those pig-eyes. And for the first time in years he questions Dean’s statement to never dream about this. Can’t really believe it. Something has to stick from this slime, this kind of life. This way to make money.

“Took longer tonight.” There is no accusation in Dean’s voice, there never is. Does he ever feel it? Probably, but Dean got too good too fast in hiding the truth. Or maybe John just stopped looking.

“Yeah. Was held up.” No apology, because there is none. There will never be.

Dean chews his lower lip, bites his thumb. Not the nail, that’ll leave marks. Still, a sure sign that something’s wrong. So wrong that even his usual walls can’t be kept up and yet no-one would be able to see exactly what goes on inside.

Today it went further than ever. Tonight John let it go that far. Out of curiosity, out of the strange fascination to see his son play a role.

He remembers the first time someone offered money for his boy. They had been desperate, but it hadn’t been planned. That very first time had been the stone that set everything in motion. Never in his life would he’ve had that idea on his own. But… it had presented itself.

The strange, unhealty-looking guy hadn’t even touched Dean, only stared. John had come out of the gas-station, seeing him watching his kid –eleven? Twelve? – in front of the Impala, joking with Sammy inside while leaning over the hood and cleaning the windshield. That freak had stood close, within grabbing distance, and John had recognized the predatory shine in his beady eyes at once. When he’d come close, the man had stuttered, apologized, offered the money before the full fury of Winchester had been unleashed. John’d been too slow.

His son, bearing witness and not exactly understanding the situation, had grabbed the bills before John’s fist could meet that assholes face and after weeks of near-starvation they’d finally been able to eat real food.

It was Dean who'd started to set this trick up for real.

But that's no excuse, the boy had been a child and as an adult – as a father - he should have strictly forbidden anything like that. Before it went too far. Before it wasn’t a game anymore.

But he hadn’t. On the contrary, he’d trained his son. Never would he have let anyone hurt Dean, let anyone go too far. Never. But… he’d lost the ability to see that thin red line, to recognize “too far”. He’d probably stepped over it on that day, when he took the money and didn’t cut that man’s balls off.

He remembers the first time they played this trick. I’m there, I won’t let you out of my eyes. You’ll be ok, I’ll never let anything happen. I swear Dean. You’ll be fine. He remembers Dean’s eyes, glowing with pride after tricking a target successfully. ”Was it ok, Dad? Not too much? Did I do it right? How much did we make?” He’d bounced up and down like Sammy on a sugar-rush.

It had been a game. Seldom played, but a game where Dean could prove himself, be more than Sam’s baby-sitter. If John would have been right in the head, he’d have stopped this trick the same day Dean stopped asking if he did good. When he apparently realized the full meaning of this ‘game’.

No, that's wrong. He never should have started it. It wasn’t worth the price.

The first time they ever planned a coup like this, he’d had to bite his tongue to not explode when the target laid eyes on Dean.

When did that stop? Today he’d stood behind the door while some slimy white-collar-asshole had his fingers between his boy’s legs!. Stood behind that FUCKING door and watched, just because he’d wanted to…what? See if maybe Dean wasn’t really playing? If he enjoyed the act itself?

Because he’d had started to doubt that Dean was just that good, couldn’t play that well without actually liking it?

What the hell?

How far would he go next time? How far would Dean go?

He looks at his kid who’s watching the world go by outside the window, pale and silent. Gone is the cocky guy with the come-hither smile, who can enchant men and women alike. Gone is the young man from the bar, who’d played his assets so perfectly that even his own father, who'd known that it was all a game, hadn’t been able to see what Dean really thought and felt. Those two personalities are gone, as is the little soldier who’d do anything his commander asked him to. Next to him is sitting a sixteen-year old boy whose father just sold his honour for one-thousand lousy US-dollar.

Doesn’t matter that it was a trick.

John thinks about his own father. Thinks about his fear of the man, remembers the beatings he used to get when he misbehaved. How he swore to never raise his hands against his own kids, no matter how angry he’d be. And anger he knows about.

But he’d kept his oath, clings to it like he doesn’t cling to much really anymore. Now,though, remembering his father… He'd been hard, his beatings often unnecessarily rough, often completely unnecessary. Some times unfair. But if Tobias Winchester had been in the bar instead of his Junior tonight, that pig-eyed slimy ass would be a gory mess now. And Tobias wouldn’t have stood behind the door and watched… Would never have dreamed about exploiting a kid like that.

How far would Dean go? No question. For Sam and his dad, his eldest would go as far as deemed necessary. An beyond. If John’d say it… Dean would do it.

Tired and disgusted, he swipes his hand over his face, brushes the moisture from the corner of his eyes. What’s next? Will he let those men pay in advance? 'Come on, Dean. Do that tongue-thing…'

Without warning his stomach heaves and he just about manages to take the car off the road and open the door. A second later he’s kneeling in the dust, throwing up his dinner, the beer, his soul. The peanuts from the bar are still recognizable.

From the far side of the Impala he can hear Dean vomit too. Poor boy always has to barf when someone else is sick. Always. When Sammy had that stomach-bug, Dean had been hanging over the toilet more often than his brother. Sure, John. And this puke-fest hasn’t got anything to do with tonight. Keep telling yourself that…

Minutes later his guts have stopped protesting and he’s sitting upright again. He puts a gentle hand on his son’s back, wanting to offer some comfort. He feels Dean flinch and tighten his muscles before getting rid of more bile. John takes his fingers away, wordlessly holds out a bottle of water when the kid straightens again.

Dean rinses his mouth half-heartedly, spitting the water into the dust before emptying the bottle in long, greedy swallows.

John drinks his own water, but even Champagne won’t get rid of that stale, rotten taste in his mouth. Not even whiskey will burn it out.

How far would he go? When did this start? Where?

Not often, they never did this often. Twice, three times a year. It's dangerous, even John realizes that. How old had Dean been? Thirteen? Yeah, about right. Not often. Often enough. How far would he go – Sam is twelve now. Would he switch horses in a year?

The idea sickens him once more, scares the crap out of him. He knows Dean will never allow that. Never. He’d rather go all the way, drop to his knees to prevent it. John knows that. And that makes it so much worse.

*

Without a word they drive back to the motel, where Sammy is pretending to be asleep. John turns off his car. Silently, he holds his son back when he moves to step out. Gentle, but firm.

“Dean?

“Sir?”

“Dean, I want to ask you something.” The fear in his kid’s eyes is visible for only a second, but it’s replaced by something so much worse, so much more terrifying. Something that got him unaware and threatens to blow his heart into tiny fragments.

Trust.

He swallows, voice won’t come out right, sounds scratchy to his own ears. “Next time I say we are low on funds and there might be a trick for us… Next time I say that, kick my ass.”

Dean raises his brows, a little wariness in his gaze.

“Dad…” ’Dad’? Not 'Sir'? Is he playing me? How far will I bend my son before I break him? “What if we need it. The money?”

“I’ll earn it. Like I should have. Like it’s been my fucking job in the first place. Mine. Not yours. You understand that?”

Dean nods, but not very convincing.

“Dean?” And he waits until his son looks at him, right in his eyes. “It’s never been your job. No matter what you believe, what I made you believe. Do you get that?” This time, when the boy nods, he’s sure. “If you want to earn something, for yourself, go sell lemonade or sweep yards. Tell me first and we’ll find a way. But this?” John motions behind him, meaning this night, those tricks they pulled. “This you do. Not. Ever. Again. You want to flirt? Do it for you. For fun. For nothing else. Never for money. Got me?” It’s not even a nod, but the… that fucking gratefulness in Dean’s eyes makes his guts revolt once more, sickens his soul. And he realizes how much his kid hated what they did. And how good he hid it. Or maybe John just didn’t want to look.

“Go in. I’ll come in a minute. – Dean ?”

“Yeah?”

“In case I forget this talk, you have permission – no, you are under order to kick my ass. Understood?” This time the smile is true and pure, young, happy and one hundred percent Dean. And if anyone ever knew the real deal, they wouldn’t be satisfied with the tired, empty version from the bar.

This smile lights up the sky.

*

He sits in his car for a while longer. He can’t turn back the clock, change his path. Would like to, but it’s impossible. He fucked up. Mary will have his balls for messing up her kid. Both kids, probably, though Sam is less inclined to let it get this far, too smart to trust his old man that completely. He can only hope the damage done isn’t too deep, irreparable. But… that flinch? Not a good sign.

He’ll make it right. How, he has no clue. But he will. He’ll pay him back.

Thinking about the guy they relieved of so much money tonight, John remembers the guilt and horror on that man’s face the minute he realized Dean’s age. The shock. He knows it was real, could see how he’d been disgusted and appalled by himself. Not that he feels sorry, but… Between the two of them, John Winchester’s not sure who had been the bigger asshole tonight.

No, he’s not sure at all…

 

~end~


End file.
